By Any Other Name
by EKWTSM9
Summary: Sometimes people can offer comfort and find solace in the most unique ways.


**This is just a quick one-shot. I think you all can figure out what episode it's about! (It was also a mini-challenge to myself to see if I could write an interesting story with no dialogue.)**

Steve took the steep concrete steps two at a time. It was a beautiful sunny day, the temperature just perfect for a day off. In anticipation of the task ahead, he was dressed in sneakers, an old pair of jeans and a checked shirt open over a once pristine white t-shirt.

Pocketing his keys, he knocked on the door, glancing over at the large picture window. The curtains were drawn, which he found odd on such a gorgeous day. He glanced at his watch: 9:55. He knocked again, a nagging pinprick of concern beginning to make itself felt in the back of his mind.

Trying to keep his rising anxiety under control, he reached back into his pocket for the keys, fumbling to find the one for this door. He slipped it into the lock and turned it as gently as he could, trying not to make any noise. He removed the key before turning the knob and slowly, silently pushed the door open.

The house was completely dark, and he quickly and noiselessly moved inside and closed the door behind him. There was no sound. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the blackness around him, his blood pounding in his ears, he sniffed the air apprehensively. He was relieved when all he could smell was a sickly sweet odor.

Muted sunlight from the kitchen window was all that was illuminating the lower floor of the old house. And as his eyes began to pick out walls and furnishings, he became aware of the figure on the couch. Wrapping his fingers around all the keys to prevent them from making any noise, he carefully slid them back into his pocket then stepped deeper into the room.

He could feel Mike's presence more than see him, and Steve waited a little longer for his eyes to focus more clearly in the almost pitch-black room. The older man was sitting in the centre of the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head down, still dressed his suit pants and dress shirt, his vest and tie off and sleeves rolled up. Before him on the coffee table was a bottle of scotch and a glass.

His heart racing, Steve stepped soundlessly to the far side of the table, taking in the tableau before him. Mike had obviously been sitting there for a very long time; the bottle was three-quarters empty and the glass half full. Leaning forward slowly, Steve delicately reached for the bottle and glass. His fingers had just closed around the bottle when his eyes fell onto something else and he froze, barely managing to quell an audible gasp. There, on the other side of the table, its barrel pointing towards the couch, lay a .38 revolver beside a leather holster.

Taking his hand slowly off the bottle, and trying to control his shaking, Steve reached calmly for the gun, keeping his eyes on the still unmoving form of his partner. He let his breath out slowly, willing himself to remain calm, as his trembling fingers inched closer to the revolver. When his fingertips touched the cold steel, he closed his eyes briefly in relief, sliding his fingers around the barrel and silently, almost imperceptibly, lifting it off the table and bringing it closer as he stood. Mike never moved.

Straightening, momentarily dizzy from the tension, he turned quietly and retreated into the refuge of the kitchen. In the light spill from the window, he stood near the counter and looked down at the revolver in his hand. What was Mike doing with a gun? He had had to turn his .38 Special over to IA after the shooting.

Steve didn't recognize this gun; it was an older model. The department had been issued new S&amp;W .38's several years ago; the older officers had been allowed to retain their old firearms if they wished. He had not realized Mike had kept his.

In the dim kitchen light, he looked closer at the revolver. The blood drained from his face and he swallowed hard, suddenly unable to catch his breath; the cylinder was full and the safety was off. He snapped the safety on and put the gun down.

Then, spreading his arms wide to lean against the counter and letting his head drop in an attempt to slow his pounding heart, he tried to marshal his disturbing thoughts, trying to make sense of what he was confronting. How far had Mike gone last night? Had he put the gun to his chest? To his temple? In his mouth?

Silently cursing himself, knowing that when he left Mike late yesterday afternoon, as he watched his usually vigorous partner trudge up the concrete steps, almost immobile with shock and guilt, that he shouldn't have left him alone. How close had he come to losing him last night?

Straightening up, Steve raised his hands from the counter and ran them over his face. He picked up the revolver again, opened a lower cupboard and secreted the gun at the back, behind some pots and pans. Then he moved silently back into the living room. Mike hadn't moved, his stillness almost frightening.

Casually, Steve leaned over the table once again, calmly picking up the bottle, glass and holster. Back in the kitchen, he emptied both the glass and bottle into the sink, and slipped the holster into his jeans pocket. Then he crossed quietly back out into the living room and up the stairs, returning seconds later with a couple of pillows and a blanket.

Putting the pillows on one end of the couch and the blanket on the coffee table, he moved it out of the way, then crossed in front of his partner and crouched. He put his hands lightly on Mike's forearms and looked into his face. Mike's eyes were open but far away, and there was no reaction to his partner's touch.

Gently, Steve's hands slid up to Mike's shoulders and he slowly pulled the older man sideways and down. There was no resistance and by the time Mike's head touched the pillows, his eyes were closed. Steve lifted Mike's legs onto the couch then, with furrowed brow and heavy heart, carefully placed the blanket over the still form.

Silently, the younger man half stood and backed towards the armchair. He sat there in the darkened room, almost unable to see the man he continued to stare at, his partner, his best friend. He tried to put himself in Mike's shoes, to imagine what it must feel like to have taken a life; and not just any life, but the life of someone who once was as close to Mike as Mike now was to him.

It was an impossible scenario to envision, and even as he fought against it, he realized that the thoughts that had no doubt crossed Mike's mind over the past twelve hours or so would have occurred to him as well.

Eventually, with a melancholy half-smile, Steve reached out and laid a hand gently on Mike's leg. There was still no response, and he sighed helplessly. But with renewed determination, he silently rose, slipped into the kitchen and retrieved the hidden revolver, let himself out of the house and returned to his car.

# # # # #

Through a hazy fog and skull-pounding headache, Mike drifted back to consciousness. He was lying down in a darkened room, and it took several seconds to realize he was on his own couch in his own living room.

He sat up slowly, the blanket falling away as he did so, and, with a heaving stomach, sat on the edge of the couch for a several minutes, trying to remember how he got there and why he felt so god-awful. Gradually the memories came back; he remembered the shooting, the follow-up interrogation by IA, the silent ride home, the bottle of scotch…and the gun.

He stared at the empty coffee table, trying to remember what had become of the bottle and the gun, especially the gun. And how did he end up lying down on the couch, with a blanket over him?

It took two tries for him to get successfully to his feet, and his stomach heaved at the effort. The pounding in his head was so intense that spots swam before his eyes as he stood, and he held onto the couch arm until they dissipated. Unsteadily, he crossed to the kitchen and, almost reluctantly, snapped on the overhead light, squinting and ducking as he did so, the brightness like a knife to the brain.

The counters were empty, like he remembered, with two exceptions. The percolator was sitting near the edge, with a note underneath, and beside it, a small bottle of aspirin. He crossed carefully to the counter, lifted the coffee-maker and picked up the note. _Just plug it in, _was all it said, and he recognized the handwriting.

With an affectionate smile, the mystery now solved, he did as instructed then went up to the bathroom on the second floor. Minutes later, looking a little more human, he re-entered the kitchen, took out a mug, poured himself a coffee, took two aspirin and, trying not to think about the events of the past twenty-four hours, walked back into the living room and opened the curtains.

The sun was just beginning to set on what looked like a beautiful Saturday in his beloved city. He never got tired of the view, and at this moment it helped him to focus only on the here and now. There was going to be plenty of time in the coming days to relive yesterday, and it was a prospect he was not looking forward to in the slightest.

As he tilted his head down slightly to take another sip of coffee, he saw them. He froze mid-motion, his heart skipping a beat and his knees suddenly weak. Unbidden tears sprang to his eyes and he leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane, trying to stop shaking.

Gaining some measure of control but his breath still shallow and rapid, he looked up again and grinned. A wave of love and gratitude washed over him and he instantly knew that anything he had to face in the coming days would not be faced alone.

He crossed slowly to his front door, opened it and stepped out onto the stoop. He walked down several steps then stopped and sat. And, with a huge grin, sipping his coffee, he gazed in wonder at the two magnificent rosebushes that graced either side of the flight of stairs.


End file.
